


We Are Beginning

by Irrealis



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crushes, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Off-Screen Career-Ending Injury, Pittsburgh Penguins, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealis/pseuds/Irrealis
Summary: Fifteen years after deciding to stay in the KHL, Zhenya visits Pittsburgh for the first time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU, I take many liberties with realism and causality, for which I apologise. Many thanks to my loyal beta J, who has been reading my work for over 17 years now and is still around. ♥

The call comes while Zhenya is slumped on the couch in his Moscow apartment, thumbing through television channels. His leg is stretched out in front of him, knee behaving for now.

"Congratulations on your retirement," says Sergei Gonchar.

Zhenya blinks slowly at the television and sits up. "Thank you?" he manages. Most people have murmured platitudes at him, all sympathetic eyes and comforting arms. Nobody's congratulated him yet.

"You're thirty-five," says Seryozha gently. "You can't play hockey. You're not dead. Have you thought about what you're going to do next?"

Zhenya scrubs at his eyes. He doesn't give the media answer. "I've thought about it. I don't know yet."

"Come to dinner tomorrow night," says Seryozha. "And take it day by day. You'll get there."

He and Seryozha have been teammates off and on over the years, even after Zhenya's papa got sick and he decided he wasn't going to America. Zhenya has been joining the Gonchar family for dinner a few times every summer for a decade and a half.

'Come to dinner' turns into 'Come to Pittsburgh', and before he really knows what he's doing he's getting on a plane to the United States.

He's been to America before. As a tourist, even. But Pittsburgh always loomed in his mind as a risk, a potential regret, so he stuck to New York, Miami, Los Angeles.

But now it doesn't matter.

Pittsburgh is pretty with early fall colours, the rivers and bridges giving the illusion of open space in the busy city. He tries to imagine himself – or rather, the boy he'd been fifteen years ago – living here and fails.

"I invited a few people over this afternoon," says Seryozha, once he's had a few days to get past the worst of the jetlag. "Completely casual, you don't need to worry."

"Will I need English?" he asks suspiciously. He's had enough English-speaking teammates – and coaches – over the years to get by, but it's not his favourite thing. He understands it better than he speaks it.

"It's good for you," says Seryozha.

Good for him or not, when the doorbell rings a few hours later he sticks to the TV room. He'll join the party when there are a few more people around.

Seryozha is having none of that, and brings the guest right through to where Zhenya is hiding.

He's met Sidney Crosby on the ice before, of course. Sometimes it feels like he's known about Sidney Crosby his entire life. But they've never met like this, Zhenya slumped on Seryozha's couch while Sidney hovers in the doorway, dressed in cargo shorts and a well-worn Penguins t-shirt.

Zhenya gets to his feet.

"Sid, this is—"

"Evgeni Malkin," says Sidney Crosby. He mangles the pronunciation a little, but it's cute. Sidney Crosby is cute. He scrubs his hand through his hair. "It's nice to meet you, finally."

"Same," Zhenya manages to say.

"I was sorry to hear about your retirement," says Sidney. He looks up at Zhenya through his lashes, eyes wide and sincere. "How long are you in Pittsburgh?"

"Week more," he says. "Going... Washington. See Sanja." Sidney looks blank, so he clarifies. "Ovechkin. You BFF, he not tell you say Sanja?"

Sidney smiles. "We're friendly, but not like that. He just likes to wind up the media."

Zhenya grins. "That sound like Sanja."

"Congratulations on Worlds," says Sidney. "That was quite the game."

He's tickled to think that Sidney had watched, although given it had been against Canada he suspects Sidney was cheering for the other team. But it had been nice, one last gold to round out the set before he retired. "Canada good fight," he says politely.

Sidney shrugs. "There's always the Olympics next year." While Zhenya is deciding how outraged he should pretend to be, he adds, "I wish I could have gone to PyeongChang. Although Russia deserved to win gold, of course."

"Thank you, but… not sorry Captain Canada not go." Zhenya winks and Sidney laughs like he wasn't expecting the joke, just as awkward as it always sounded on video. "Congratulations sister, on women's game," Zhenya continues, not to be outdone.

Sidney's face lights up. "You know, Taylor kept saying she was happy just to be starting," he says. "But she's amazing. I always knew she could do it."

It's hard to reconcile this feeling with the intensity of seeing Sidney Crosby across a faceoff dot. He looks different like this, soft and relaxed. Comfortable. He seems more like he would have at eighteen, when he was a rookie on (what would be) Zhenya's team and Zhenya couldn't get enough of watching him on tape.

"Sid, you want a drink?" asks Ksenia, popping her head into the room.

Sidney startles. "Oh, no, I'll come over there," he says.

Seryozha catches Zhenya's eye, mouth quirked with some kind of internal amusement.

Zhenya ignores him and follows in Sidney and Ksenia's wake.

\--

Seryozha talks him into attending a Penguins preseason game. It's a relaxed affair, by hockey standards – the line-up mostly consists of rookies and other young players buzzing around the ice with speed and enthusiasm. Sidney Crosby is bringing up the third line and seems thrilled with this development.

He gets a text after the game and carefully navigates the back corridors of the arena until he finds Seryozha.

The Penguins locker room smells like any other locker room he's been in, and he hasn't been gone long enough to be nostalgic for it. He wrinkles his nose.

One of the Penguins' rookies was Zhenya's rookie in Magnitogorsk last season. Alexander Anisimov – Little Sasha to Metallurg Magnitogorsk – looks at the locker room floor and won't meet Zhenya's eyes, even though he scored the game winner and has multiple reasons to be proud.

He worms his way over, carefully shouldering his way through the crowd so he can speak to Little Sasha alone. "Good job tonight. Nice goal."

"Thank you, captain," mumbles Little Sasha. He still looks miserable.

Zhenya lets the "captain" slide and leans against the wall. "Do you think I'm mad at you?"

Little Sasha swallows and shakes his head.

Zhenya looks at him skeptically. "I promise, I'll tell you if I'm angry. You're a good player. The Penguins are lucky to have you."

"I came to America," says Little Sasha, all in a rush. "I didn't stay."

_Oh_ , thinks Zhenya. He smiles gently, reassuring. "And you think because I stayed, I think you should have?" Zhenya shrugs. "Let me tell you a secret. I would have dropped everything to come to America if my papa hadn't got sick."

Little Sasha's eyes widen. "Really?"

He nods. He knows he's a legend in the KHL: the one who never gave into the NHL; the one who stayed. But at twenty, torn between two dreams, he'd made the decision to stay because of his family.

"But if the national team asks, you come back," Zhenya adds. There are limits.

"Of course!" says Little Sasha, sounding offended.

He lets Little Sasha go back to changing and finds an out of the way corner to stand back and watch the team. He chats for a bit with Viktor Kovalev, who'd been on the team at the World Championship two years ago.

Sidney pulls him aside later, gently touching his elbow before pulling his hand away again and resting it in his pocket. He asks a few questions about how the Penguins style compares to Metallurg's, and listens to Zhenya's answers with apparent genuine interest.

"Sidney Crosby on third line now," Zhenya observes.

Sidney laughs. "Hopefully just for the preseason games. But I guess I'll find out, eh? It's nice. Let the kids find their feet."

Zhenya nods. "Lots to learn."

There's a bead of sweat working its way down the side of Sidney's jaw, and Zhenya has to stop himself from reaching over and brush it away.

"When are you going to Washington?" asks Sidney.

"Tomorrow," says Zhenya. "Lunch flight. Not bad."

"Oh," says Sidney. He looks disappointed. "I hope you liked Pittsburgh, it was great to finally meet you. Say hi to Ovi for me."

"Come back after," says Zhenya.

Sidney's brow furrows. "You mean, you will?"

Zhenya nods. "Sorry. English bad."

"You're not doing too badly," says Sidney, somehow managing to sound polite while lying through his teeth. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Hey, let me know when you get back in. I'm having a preseason thing, maybe you can come along."

When he and Seryozha leave a bit later, he has Sidney Crosby's Snapchat and an email sent to his agent asking to change his flights.

\--

Washington is an exercise in unrestrained America. Sanja is determined to drag him around to all of the monuments he can find over the first few days, laughing at the faces Zhenya pulls.

He takes selfies as they go, posting them to his feed or sending them to people back home individually when something reminds him of a particular person. He gets a couple of encouraging, if slightly awkward, comments from Sidney, and accordingly starts sending photos to Sidney privately.

Sidney doesn't respond with selfies, but sends photos of his dog, the view out his window, whatever he's eating (steak or chicken, mostly), occasional expanses of clean ice or a piece of equipment.

He's laughing at a video of Sidney engaged in a tug of war with his dog over a knotted piece of rope when Sanja drapes himself over Zhenya's back and demands to know who he's talking to. "You have Sidney Crosby's Snapchat?" he asks, making a grab for Zhenya's phone and missing when Zhenya snaps it away.

"We met in Pittsburgh," he says. He refuses to be embarrassed about this and wills his cheeks to stop heating up.

"You're consorting with the enemy," teases Sanja.

"I'm retired," Zhenya retorts.

Sanja winces and lets him go. "Tell him to take care of Walker. Pittsburgh doesn't deserve him."

"Tell him yourself," says Zhenya. "You're BFFs, aren't you?"

Sanja rolls his eyes. "Stop looking at your phone and look at my beautiful city," he says, which is difficult to argue with.

He gets dropped off at the Smithsonian National Zoo on a day Sanja is needed to do Capitals things, and Zhenya spends a happy day meeting all the animals. He wishes he could have a tiger or a panda of his own, even if he knows he wouldn't be able to give them the care they need. Some dreams don't need to be realistic.

He has to ice his knee when he gets home, hissing as he straightens it out on the couch. It's going to take a lot of physiotherapy before he can skate for any sustained period. He knew that, but it sucks to be reminded.

Sanja is apologetic, but Zhenya brushes it off. It's his own stubborn fault.

Instead of flying back to Pittsburgh, he decides to rent a sports car and drive. He sends Sid a photo of the car with the comment _Coming back to Pitt!!_ and gets an invite to a party the next night.

\--

Sidney Crosby's house and grounds are large, modern and currently full of people.

It's a nice night for a barbeque. The weather is pleasant, just starting to get a chill after the sun sets. Zhenya accepts drinks and food when offered and doesn't think about the future.

Viktor introduces him to the other Russians in and around the team and they chat about the state of the KHL (good) and the Russian national team (best). Someone says they're sorry he won't be captain for the next Olympics, which triggers a cascade of condolences on his retirement, one after the other.

He isn't sure if it's starting to hurt less or if he's just becoming numb to the pain.

Zhenya extracts himself from that conversation before it becomes too awkward, and Little Sasha immediately pulls him over to a cluster of rookies and other young players. Zhenya gives them his usual advice: listen to the coaches, don't try to play through an injury without clearance from the medical staff, concussions are serious. "Learn from my mistakes," he says firmly.

Sidney is busy hosting, but he manages to catch Zhenya long enough to re-introduce him to Mario Lemieux, at which point all of Zhenya's English promptly disappears. Once he's escaped from that, he lets himself get drawn into a ball hockey game with some of the kids.

Out of force of habit, he falls back into captain mode with the young players. When the party starts to wind down and even the most enthusiastic of the youngsters are ready to go home, he makes certain they're all either safe to drive or sent off in taxis, until it's just him and Sidney standing in Sidney's driveway.

"Sorry," says Zhenya, embarrassed. "I go." He looks at his hand speculatively, then at the ground. It's swimming a little, shifting in and out of focus. "Maybe, taxi."

"I'll call one," says Sidney. "You're staying with Gonch, right?"

"No, hotel," says Zhenya. Sidney looks faintly scandalised. "My choice, not Sergei," he says, in defence of his friend's hospitality. He hadn't wanted his hosts to bear the bulk of the inconvenience for Zhenya's last-minute decisions.

"You can stay here," says Sidney, sliding his phone into his back pocket.

Zhenya tries to protest, but he really is too drunk to drive and there's no way he can call a taxi on his own. He's lucky he remembered the English for "hotel".

Instead of showing him to a bedroom, Sidney sets him up in the TV room with a Gatorade and an NHL game. Zhenya squints at the screen but can't make the acronyms make sense. West coast, but that's as far as he can guess.

"Number 17 bad hands," says Zhenya, when Sidney sits down on the other end of the couch two commercial breaks later.

Sidney peers at the screen and shrugs. "I'll take your word for it." Which probably means he doesn't know who it is either. "How was Washington?"

He takes a moment to gather his words. Hockey English always comes easier than conversational. "Washington nice. Sanja most annoying. You worst taste for BFF."

Sidney giggles. "I told you, that's all an exaggeration." He takes a gulp from his own Gatorade. They watch the kid fumble a pass and Sidney winces. "OK, yeah. You're right."

Zhenya shrugs. "Is young. Will learn." Quickly, if he wants to keep his roster spot.

Sidney nudges him with his shoulder. Zhenya isn't sure how they ended up sitting so close together. His arm, stretched along the back of the couch, is only a short distance from being draped over Sidney's shoulders. "Hey, thanks for coming."

"Pleasure," says Zhenya. "Good party." He shrugs. "I like... team. You Sidney Crosby." He waves his hand up and down and suspects he isn't making sense.

Sidney meets his gaze, pupils blown wide in the dim light, and licks his lips.

Zhenya is far too drunk to be thinking the things he is.

But not too drunk to respond when Sidney tilts his head in invitation and leans the slightest bit towards him. And then they're making out on the couch and all other thoughts melt away.

\--

Zhenya wakes in someone else's bed, with someone else.

He waits until the location resolves itself into "Sidney Crosby's bedroom" and the person becomes "Sidney Crosby".

Sidney is still asleep, sprawled on his back with his hair all fluffy over the pillow. Zhenya revises his original impression: _now_ he looks like the eighteen year old Zhenya had carefully nurtured a secret crush on.

But Sidney Crosby isn't eighteen anymore, and Zhenya isn't nineteen, and he's trying to decide if fucking Sidney Crosby counts as a terrible mistake or as fulfilling a lifelong dream.

Sidney's eyes flutter open and he tenses for a moment before his gaze focuses on Zhenya and he relaxes. "Good morning," he murmurs.

Definitely the latter.

Zhenya returns the greeting in Russian, because he can and it's too early for English.

Sidney climbs out of bed and returns with a glass of water for each of them. Zhenya dozes off after he downs it, and when he opens his eyes again Sidney is curled on his side, thumbing at his phone.

"I think, is good thing I'm never come to Pittsburgh," Zhenya muses out loud. Sidney half gets up in bed, eyes wide, so Zhenya barrels on. "I seduce star player, all girls very sad."

Sidney giggles. "The seduction was mutual, believe me." He settles back with his head on the pillow next to Zhenya, facing him. "It would have been different if you'd come," he says. "We could have used you in 2009, for sure."

"If I'm come, you win Cup every time," Zhenya tells him.

Sidney doesn't laugh out loud, but his eyes are dancing. "You think so?"

"Of course!"

"Then I'm sorry you didn't come," says Sidney, smiling. "But I think we did okay. Two cups isn't a bad run."

"I'm do well too," says Zhenya. "Not regret. Just, wonder sometimes."

He'll always wonder. But Seryozha was right: it was time to lay these ghosts to rest.

"I've always wanted to visit Russia," says Sidney. Zhenya has actually shared ice with Sidney in Russia, and his face must be showing some of that because Sidney continues. "For fun, I mean. In the summer. Not for hockey."

"You come to Russia, I show you Russia best," says Zhenya.

"Yeah?" says Sidney. He smiles. "I'd like that."

Zhenya chews on his lip. "Can train too. Best hockey Russian."

Sidney rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. "We'll see."

**Author's Note:**

> PS: Zhenya's papa recovered and is now relatively healthy for his age.
> 
> Obviously I'm hoping the NHL changes their mind about going to PyeongChang in 2018, but for the purposes of this story they don't.
> 
> Writing notes: The final scene was the first one that entered my head, and then I had to build a story around it. Oops. Title lifted from the Stars song "In Our Bedroom After the War".


End file.
